Flowers were his former Grace’s favorite indulgence. Her garden stretched as far as the eye could see, and selfishly, she would spend hours wandering the maze of hedges with Ser Dorian by her side. Bound to her by duty, he followed, even as his senses dulled to everything but the scent of florals she’d carefully tuck into the small slits of his armor. The fragrance always lingered, long after they’d left.

The same flowers she’d grown had been the one to decorate the cathedral after her passing. Too young—claimed by complications during childbirth, and grief from the loss of her husband, the king. Dorian knew it wasn’t his fault. It had been beyond his ability to prevent. Yet the guilt remained, suffocating like a weight against his chest. He had promised to protect her, and in his heart, he had failed.

Never again did he think he’d be assigned to another liege. He had made it clear to his commanding officers that he thought himself unworthy. But his arguments fell on deaf ears.

A few years later, he found himself places in Etterden, a small province known for its grain production. The manor here boasted that of a homey atmosphere without the pomp and circumstance of royal life.

Dorian’s acclimation to his new life was one of ease, though he could not help but catalogue every difference between this home and his previous. And you—the widowed Grace of Etterden—were nothing like his previous liege, except for one thing: the garden you tended each week.

It was clear you didn’t have the skill for it. The beds were uneven, the plants struggling, but you persevered, wiping sweat from your brow in a way that was completely uncouth for someone of your station. Dorian found himself suppressing a quiet huff as he watched you.

“Is floriculture a new hobby of yours, Your Grace?” he asked, stepping closer, his eyes scanning the ragged state of your work. Without waiting for an answer, he knelt beside you, digging his hands into the soil. “You’re working as if it is a chore, not something to be enjoyed.”